


Amnesiac

by pandorical



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandorical/pseuds/pandorical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And before the gangly boy slips back into unconsciousness, he realises that he now knows two things about himself: his name is Stiles and he’s a bit of a potty mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hospitium

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a really long time since I've written anything, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Let me know if you notice any spelling/grammar errors or other mistakes like that and I'll fix them immediately. Other feedback about characterisation/plot etc. will be taken on board for future chapters. Any and all feedback is welcomed!

When the gangly boy comes to, he’s lured back into consciousness by a concerned voice that’s uttering something about his _style_ , of all things.  
  
"Damn right I have style," he mumbles, his voice sounding slightly queer to his ears.  
  
" _Stiles_ ," the voice says again, more urgent this time, and the gangly boy opens one eye and then the other, blinking blearily at the too-bright light that’s flooding his system.  
  
"Oh. So… if that’s who I am, then who’re you?" His voice is slurred, but that’s not why it sounds strange. Something just doesn’t feel _right_  about it.   
  
The face that hovers over his is furrowed in concern and Stiles (that’s his name, right?) has a single word flash through his mind: _familiar_. "Hey, I know you," he murmurs, trying to sit up, or at the very least move his arms. But he’s still too disoriented to do more than flail like a dying goldfish. Then, a moment later: "How do I know you again?"  
  
"It’s me, son. It’s your father."   
  
"Oh shit. Oh _shit_. I must have banged my head pretty hard, huh?" is all he manages, his words still groggy and eyes beginning to blur around the edges again.  
  
His father rubs his temples and lets out a terse sigh. "Well at least you haven’t forgotten your manners."   
  
And before the gangly boy slips back into unconsciousness, he realises that he now knows two things about himself: his name is Stiles and he’s a bit of a potty mouth. 

\----------

  
Stiles wakes again a few hours later and he doesn’t feel quite so hungover — if that’s even the right word for it. When he opens his eyes, there’s a face all up in his space, and his first thought is that he still must be pretty out of it because this dude is all wonky. Eyes fixed on the chin in front of him, Stiles wonders if he’s tripping.   
  
"Uh, hi," he mumbles.  
  
"Hey," his potential trip hallucination returns awkwardly. "Scott, if you’ve forgotten. They said you weren’t remembering much. How are you feeling?"  
  
Stiles thinks about it for a moment and the words are clear, tumbling out of his mouth quickly. "My mind is clearer now. At last, all too well, I can see—" But he’s cut off, his voice becoming a muffled mess when a hand is shoved clumsily across his open mouth.   
  
"No, dude, no. That’s… that’s Jesus Christ Superstar or something. Lydia was playing it when she came to visit you earlier."  
  
"Lydia? As in… a girl?" Stiles visibly brightens at that. "Wait. She’s not my mum or something, is she? Because that would be kind of less exciting."   
  
Scott (that’s his name, right? Too many names…) goes silent. Something passes across his face that Stiles doesn’t quite register but when he tries to ask about it, nothing comes out. He’s lost the ability to form words and can’t quite figure out why before everything’s starting to darken and he’s slipping back into another uneasy, albeit dreamless, sleep. 

\----------

  
The next time he wakes, an undeterminable amount of time later, his dad is back. _Hey dad!_  he attempts, but no words manage to make it past his lips. All that comes out is a sort of gargling noise.  
  
When his father notices that he’s is once more in the land of the living, he puts a gentle hand on Stiles’ shoulder, thumb rubbing calming circles into it.   
  
"How are you feeling?"  
  
Stiles clears his throat experimentally and begins to push himself up onto his elbows. With some help from his dad, he manages to get halfway to a seated position (but mostly just slumped) with a pillow propping him up behind his shoulder blades.   
  
"Stronger?" he tries, startled by just how weak his voice sounds. He’d applaud the irony there if he had the strength.   
  
"You’ve got some colour back in your cheeks," his dad says and there’s something in his tone that Stiles can’t place. One of those things that you can’t really put your finger on until you really _know_  a person — and, right now, it doesn’t _feel_  like he knows him. It’s his father, maybe, but it’s not quite his dad just yet.   
  
"Son, Scott told me what you said yesterday," he says gently, hand still rubbing a soothing motion on Stiles’ shoulder. "About your mother. Stiles, your mum—"  
  
"Is dead, I know."   
  
"Your memory. Do you…"   
  
"No, just some things," Stiles says on a dejected sigh, reaching both hands up to rub his face vigorously. With them, he brings an assortment of plastic tubes and wiring, attached to him at the wrist. It’s only then that he looks, really _looks_ , at his surroundings and realises where he is. "Are we in the hospital?"  
  
"You had an accident." And if his father’s voice hitches, like a strangled out sob, Stiles pretends not to notice.   
  
"I don’t remember," he says with a weak, bitter laugh. "It’s like… I don’t _remember_ anything, but there are some things I just _know_. I know you’re my father. And not because you said so when I woke up. I can tell you are, I know you are. But I don’t remember anything. I don’t know. It’s kind of like… I read a book about it once, but now that I’m trying to reread it, I’ve found that half the pages are missing." His arms flail in the air as he gesticulates, trying to explain what he’s experiencing. The whole spiel leaves him feeling even weaker, though, so he decides to abandon all attempts at communicating his situation and just shuts up.   
  
His dad rubs his face, much in the same way that Stiles had a moment before, before his hand is back on his son’s arm. "You’re going to be okay, kiddo. The doctor’s say it’ll just take time. This is perfectly normal for someone who’s experienced some sort of trauma."   
  
But what Stiles soon realises, after another visit from Scott, is that there’s nothing normal about this situation whatsoever.   
  
"You’ve got to be shitting me," he deadpans when Scott spurts some cock and bull about werewolves and the supernatural. A quip is on his lips about whether freaking _spiderman_  exists as well, but he doesn’t even bother indulging Scott’s ridiculous claims. It’s probably what he’s playing at here, trying to have some fun at Stiles’ expense. _Cruel._  
  
It isn’t until a frankly alarming flash of his eyes and a low growl that Stiles begins to think that he’s _really_  missed something here. In the most basic act of human preservation, his instincts tell him to put any barrier possible between himself and the threat (even one as flimsy as a cotton sheet) and he dives beneath the bed clothes to hide.   
  
Scott, tactful as he’s turning out to be, laughs his fucking arse off until Stiles reemerges with flushed cheeks.  
  
"Dude, do you seriously not remember any of this?" he asks, before plunging into an animated story about the various misadventures that the two of them have shared to get Stiles back up to speed with everything weird that’s been going down in Beacon Hills.   
  
This shit is _definitely_  from one of those missing pages he told his dad about.   
  
Most of his questions have been answered by the time a faint knock on the door alerts him to the presence of visitors. Stiles looks up in time to watch two beautiful girls slip inside, ones who have come to visit _him_ , and he counts himself a lucky bastard. Even if he can’t remember who they are. At least he knows they’re not related to him, so that’s a start.  
  
"Um, introductions maybe?" he suggests wearily, his eyes flicking between Scott and the pretty strawberry blonde.  
  
Scott takes the other girl, the brunette, by the hand and tugs her into his side. "Allison, my girlfriend," he says and gets this goofy look on his face and Stiles can’t help grinning back. Scott’s smiles are pretty infectious. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that they _are_  supposed to be best friends. "And Lydia, who you’ve had a crush on since the third grade."   
  
Suddenly, Stiles’ eyes are back on Lydia, his mouth hanging slightly agape before he remembers that the social etiquette of being in front of your longterm crush demands he shut it. He does — _immediately_. "Well," he says with an awkward chuckle, shifting slightly on his uncomfortable hospital bed. "I hope she knew that already, because this isn’t exactly ideal timing for the big reveal."   
  
Before he gets an answer from her, Lydia is moving forward to hug him and as soon as her arms wrap around his neck, Stiles gets this warm, fuzzy feeling inside. A kind of familiarity, but not the sort that he thinks he’s supposed to feel when the love of his life throws herself at him. It’s the same sort of feeling he gets when Scott and his dad hug him: comfortable, safe.   
  
"He’s joking," Lydia clarifies, sending a sharp glare towards Scott. "You got over me, like, _ages_  ago."  
  
But despite how relaxed she was just a moment ago, her body suddenly goes rigid against his. "At least I _thought_  you had," she says, providing no explanation for the strange behaviour. "Stiles! I know you’re in hospital and deserve a certain amount of leniency, but that is totally inappropriate!" Stiles remains in the dark about just _what_  the hell is going on until she points down to his crotch.  
  
And, just like that, Scott is doubled over in a fit of laughter once again.  
  
Stiles just grimaces and throws back the covers to investigate. Afterwards, he might think that if the situation _had_  been as Lydia mistook it for, this might have made matters even worse. Just because his father’s the sheriff, doesn’t mean Stiles can’t still get pegged with an account of indecent exposure.   
  
Scott laughs even harder when Stiles grabs the TV remote that he left on his lap, flinging it to the other side of the room. "See, I’m totally innocent!" he exclaims indignantly, mock glaring at Lydia.   
  
"Yeah, and wearing a _dress_ ," Scott snorts, pointing at the hospital robe that only stretches as far as Stiles’ thighs.   
  
He rolls his head back and whines, "Somebody get me some clothes! This thing probably doesn’t even have a butt flap on it and I’m not letting anyone else see my arse before _I’ve_  even had a chance to check it out yet."   
  
"Trust me, there’s nothing worth checking out," Scott grumbles, pretending to be grossed out, but he’s still grinning.   
  
There’s a frantic scramble to find Stiles something to wear (since the clothes he was brought in with are crusted in blood, oh god, _blood_ ) but finally he’s dressed respectably enough that he can take a brief walk around the hospital with his friends. He only manages a single lap of the floor before he’s winded and needs to sit back down again, but it’s still a start.  
  
And, even though he doesn’t feel like he really _knows_  them right now, there’s still a pang of disappointment when his friends leave.   
  
The nurses (one of whom introduces herself as Scott’s mum, huh) want to keep him in another night for observation, but his dad comes to pick him up the following morning to take him home. He’s under strict orders to remain in bed rest for two weeks but Stiles already knows that there won’t be so much rest involved as bloody school work. Staying up to date on missed classwork is bad enough when you’re sick, but they expect Stiles to do it while missing all the foundation knowledge that he’s been learning throughout the year. Freaking impossible.   
  
So nothing about the whole set up sounds particularly restful to Stiles, but at least he gets to bid farewell to the plastic tubing that has become some kind of avant-garde fashion accessory since he woke up.   
  
"Do you need a minute?" his dad asks after he’s helped Stiles up the stairs and deposited him on his bed.   
  
He’s too busy looking around at the familiar yet somewhat alien surroundings to answer his dad immediately. "Yeah, just… yeah. I’ll be fine."   
  
"I’ll bring up something to eat in about half an hour. Give me a shout if you need anything." His dad hovers by the door for a few more moments, watching Stiles carefully as though he’s not sure whether he should leave or not. But eventually he does, backing off and retreating noisily down the stairs.    
  
Stiles gets gingerly to his feet, wandering slowly around his room and examining everything in it. There’s a laptop sitting on his desk, _his_  obviously, and he makes a note to look through it later for any clues to help piece together the periods of his memory that are missing. Which, at the moment, feels like most of it.   
  
He pulls open his closet and looks inside, making a face at the frightening wall of plaid that stares back at him. He rummages through a few drawers until he finds a pair of pyjamas that look habitable and awkwardly pulls them on. It takes a couple of attempts before he manages to get his arms into the right holes and he needs to take a breather after the exertion, sitting down on the edge of his bed. But at least he’s comfortable now.   
  
The scraping of his window causes him to jump and he topples back onto the bed. His heart thumps behind his ribcage as though someone’s hooked him up to an electroshock machine.   
  
" _Dude_ ," he breathes as he watches Scott climb through his window, as graceless as a baby giraffe, almost falling over himself. "What the hell? We have a door for a reason."   
  
"Sorry," Scott says sheepishly, moving into the room and closer to Stiles. "Your dad said no visitors until tomorrow, when I bring you some work from school. Reckons you’ll get too worked up by all the excitement."  
  
"More worked up than having someone break through my bedroom window?"   
  
Scott just grins.   
  
"So are you just visiting? Or is this more supernatural shit?" Stiles asks, not sure if he even wants to know the answer. On the one hand, werewolves exist _, cool_. But on the other, it’s a bit of a clusterfuck of a situation to find yourself thrown into the middle of when you’ve got no recollection of anything that’s gone down in the past couple of years.   
  
"Well yeah, that too." Scott’s grin widens. "So good to have you back, dude."  
  
"Half back," Stiles corrects with a light huff. "It would be helpful if I could actually _remember_  all this crap."  
  
"Yeah, about that…" Scott looks awkward as he scratches the back of his neck, taking a seat on the edge of Stiles’ bed. Stiles backs up a little and crosses his legs underneath him to give his friend some space for his own long limbs. "This whole memory block thing? It’s not your typical amnesia. There _was_  trauma involved, but like I told you in the hospital, there’s all this supernatural stuff going on that kind of, uh, complicates things."  
  
"Complicates how?"   
  
Scott doesn’t beat around the bush. "Witches."  
  
" _Witches?_  Like Harry freaking Potter witches?" Stiles asks reflexively. He frowns a moment later, wondering who thateven _is_ and why he knows the name.   
  
"Dude." Scott sounds hurt. "You remember who Harry Potter is but not who I am?" Like  _that’s_ what matters right now.   
  
"Concentrate!" Stiles said, flailing a little. "You said witches!"  
  
"Ok, right. Yeah, not so much Harry Potter witches. More like the kind who steal your memories and trap them inside… Well, we don’t actually know what your memory’s trapped inside of. It could be something that the witch specified, or it could just be something that you kind of latched onto yourself. No one’s really sure. But!" Scott continues, sounding like he’s _trying_  to be optimistc. "The good news is that, when we find it, your memories will start coming back!"  
  
"Ok. How do we find it?"   
  
Scott’s face drops a little again and Stiles is quickly learning that this dude wears his emotions between his eyebrows. His expression gives away _everything_. "We’ll figure out a way, don’t worry. Everyone’s already looking into it and everything. But there’s something else I need to talk to you about."  
  
"Oh goody, there’s more," Stiles deadpans.   
  
"Well, yeah. The thing is, she didn’t finish the job. I mean, not _all_  of your memories are gone, are they. Like Harry Potter?"  
  
"Harry Potter," Stiles repeats and can’t help a half-grin. It’s distant and he can’t quite figure it out, but it’s a memory all the same. Somewhere hidden away that he just can’t quite access yet.  
  
"So that’s good news and bad news, right?"  
  
"I’m struggling to see what’s bad about still having _some_  memories to hold onto," Stiles mutters. The alternative would be even bloody worse than his current reality.   
  
"Well—" And Scott is scratching the back of his neck again, looking awkward. "We’re worried she might come back and try to finish the job. No one’s actually been able to track her down yet."  
  
Stiles panics and looks towards the window, as though it’s now a thoroughfare for all kinds of supernatural riffraff who might just decide to jump through it on a whim.   
  
"But don’t worry!" Scott says hurriedly, trying to calm Stiles. "We’re all looking! And we’re going to make sure someone’s always here to keep an eye on you and look after you. The only problem is—"  
  
"School," Stiles finishes for him. "You’ve all got school."  
  
"Well, not all of us," Scott admits and if he looked awkward before, it was nothing compared to how he looks now. "There’s Derek."  
  
"Derek," Stiles repeats. "Which one’s Derek?"  
  
"You haven’t met him yet. Well, you _have_ , you’ve known him for ages now, but you haven’t met him since you, you know, woke up. And forgot everything."   
  
"Ok," Stiles says slowly, still trying to fit together the pieces of the puzzle that Scott is wilfully keeping from him, leaving too many bits of the story unsaid. "What’s the problem?"  
  
"Well, you guys don’t exactly get along that well." At the look of indignation on Stiles’ face, Scott hurriedly adds, "I mean, it’s not just you! He’s Derek; nobody gets along with him. But don’t worry, he’s totally on board with it! He’s going to hang around here during the day until school’s out and I can come back. I’ve talked to my mum already and she says it’s fine if I stay over, as long as I still make it to school on time. So it’s like he and I will be taking shifts! Seriously, he’s totally cool with the idea!"   
  
And Stiles gets the distinct impression that this isn’t so much about trying to reassure him as it is about Scott trying to convince himself. 

\----------

  
"No."  
  
"You haven’t even—"  
  
"No."  
  
"You’re not—"  
  
" _No_."  
  
" _Derek_ ," Scott whines, flexing his fingers in frustration. "You’re making this into something way harder than it has to be."   
  
Derek’s nostrils flare and his eyes flash a menacing red, a gesture that he’s disappointed has lost some of its potency since Scott decided to branch off and create his _own_  pack. "You’re trying to employ me as a _babysitter,_ " he spits the word as though it’s a poison he’s just consumed.   
  
"Since you’re currently unemployed, would that really be such a bad thing?" Scott tries feebly, but Derek’s having none of it.   
  
"Find someone else."   
  
"There _is_  no one else! The rest of us are at high school. And you’ve only got yourself to blame for that since you don’t seem to have any friends your own age."   
  
Derek twitches in frustration, knowing that it’s a very valid point. Not that he’d call them friends: they’re either pack or they’re not, and none of them are _friends_.   
  
But Scott is far from finished, it seems. "If the witch comes back to finish the job, Stiles is going to be powerless to defend himself against her. And this isn’t just about his memory. What if she wants to create some kind of mind control hand puppet out of him to do all her evil bidding? And no one will even know it happened! Imagine the kind of chaos that could create!"  
  
Derek wants to point out that Stiles already acts like he’s got a stick up his arse half the time and replacing it with a hand won’t make an awful lot of difference, but he bites his tongue. Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose because he knows that Scott is _right_. Stiles is something of a liability at the best of times, but now without his memory or even a basic understanding of anything supernatural, he’s a sitting duck.   
  
"Fine," he mutters, resigned to the fact that he’s going to be spending his days in misery until this whole mess is sorted out. Not to mention trying to make sure that Stiles doesn’t remember what an annoying shit he can be. Hopefully he’s forgotten just how much _joy_  he seems to take out of making Derek’s life a living hell.   
  
"Fine," he repeats, like he’s still trying to convince himself.  
  
"So you’ll do it?" Scott’s visibly excited now, practically bouncing on his toes. "You’ll babysit him?"  
  
"Call me that again," Derek warns with a rumbling growl. 

\----------

  
It quickly dawns on Derek, as he’s loitering outside the Stilinski house the following morning, that this isn’t going to be as much of a border security job as he was hoping.   
  
Lurking in the backyard until Scott returns to take the night shift would be relatively easy. It’s no more than Derek does at his own place, patrolling the perimeter to make sure there are no threats present. But the incessant buzzing of his phone ever since Scott left half an hour ago, and the stream of needy message that follow, tells him that it isn’t going to be quite as uninvolved as he was hoping.   
  
Growling under his breath, Derek pulls out his phone and glares down at the screen. Message number twelve.  
  
 **isaac jst drove past, said ur lurking. u cnt leave him alone all day GO INSIDE!!!!!**  
  
Another message comes through while Derek’s still glowering down at the screen.  
  
 **ps say hi 4 me**  
  
He doesn’t send a reply but with a roll of his shoulders and a huff, Derek makes his way towards the house. The sheriff locked the front door when he left about ten minutes ago, but Derek knows from experience that Stiles’ bedroom window is seldom locked. It came in handy while he was a fugitive ( _thank you_ , Scott McCall) and needed a place to bunker down. And climbing into Stiles’ room was about as pleasant a prospect then as it is now.  
  
Approaching the overhanging first floor roof, Derek considers it for just a moment before hoisting himself up and walking across the slate tiles to the right bedroom. He slides open the window and climbs through.   
  
At first he’s relieved to see that Stiles isn’t there, but the feeling doesn’t last long before it’s replaced by frustration. If the kid has already managed to get himself kidnapped by witches, then he deserves whatever fate they have in store for him, as far as Derek’s concerned.   
  
He’s just about to start his one-man search party when Stiles bursts out of the closet, brandishing a stretched out coat-hanger and flying towards him.  
  
"YOU’RE NOT TAKING ANY MORE OF MY MEMORIES, WITCH!" he shrieks as he lunges towards Derek.   
  
Derek’s jaw clenches in annoyance and he lets out a terse breath. He waits until Stiles is within reach and extends an arm, grabbing his wrist in a death grip. "Drop it," he warns, bearing his pointed teeth for just a moment.   
  
Stiles obeys with a choked sort of croak. "You’re not—"   
  
"I’m not a witch, you idiot," Derek snaps.  
  
"Then…"   
  
 "I’m your fucking babysitter." Because it turns out apparently Stiles _needs_  one.   
  
"Well you must be Derek. I don’t think we’ve met," Stiles says and it’s clear the kid is trying to feign a casual tone, but his pulse betrays his fear. "You can, you know, let go of me now."   
  
Derek considers for a moment before releasing his grip on Stiles’ wrist, setting him free. "Oh trust me, we’ve met," he practically growls. "Only I don’t have the good fortune to have _forgotten_." 


	2. Muscularis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter has taken so long! I had it written up days ago, but it needed a good edit and I just didn't have the time. But it's here now! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, so leave a quick comment and let me know what you think!

The thing about this whole memory wiping business is that it’s kind of like getting a clean slate. A one sided clean slate, sure, but it’s still one all the same.  
  
Take Derek, for example. Scott warned Stiles that they didn’t get along but it’s not something he actually _remembers_. That makes the whole process of adjusting to the idea of him staying over all day every day a hell of a lot easier. He’s not some kind of enemy, he’s just a stranger.   
  
So as far as Stiles is concerned, it’s a totally _wasted_  opportunity for reconciliation on Derek’s part when he initiates some kind of ninja death grip on him.   
  
"Guess you’re trying to help me remember what an arsehole you are, right?" Stiles pants as he rubs his wrist, half expecting it to be _broken_. "Very selfless, Derek. Gold star for you, man."   
  
Derek’s glaring, his lips pursed in a thin line, but he he remains silent.   
  
"Big talker, huh?" Stiles goes on as he kicks the bent out coat hanger back into the closet and swings the door shut behind it. Grabbing his phone off the desk, he punches out a frustrated message to Scott.   
  
 **Guess I can cross neanderthal off my Christmas list then.**  
  
With a sigh, Stiles sits down on his swivel chair and spins it around to face Derek, tapping out a beat on the armrest for a moment while he considers the other in silence. "Ok, so maybe we should start again," he says because, well, maybe someone kicked Derek’s puppy and he’s just having a bad day. Or his wolf cub, whatever. Stiles has no frame of reference for their relationship, but he’s definitely down with doing whatever it takes to make this whole thing easier. He can worry about pride and dignity and all _that_  once he starts remembering things.  
  
So he does the mature thing and reintroduces himself.   
  
"Hi, I’m Stiles."  
  
"Yes," is all he gets from Derek.  
  
Stiles waits for a moment before making an impatient gesture with his hands. "Well? Is that it? When someone introduces themselves, you’re meant to do it back. Or did you miss the lesson on _basic courtesy_  while you were busy trying to invent the wheel?"   
  
"You already know my name."  
  
"Oh my god, you are _so_  missing the point here!" Stiles huffs.   
  
He swings back around to face his laptop and pushes it open, resuming the research he was doing on memory loss before the ruddy werewolf jumped through his window. He doesn’t feel like he’s making much headway, though. None of his google searches involving witches have been particularly fruitful, but hey, at least he knows who Harry Potter is now.  
  
It takes a moment but he eventually registers that Derek is hovering behind him, looking over his shoulder. Stiles stiffens. "What are you doing?" he asks guardedly.  
  
"I was told to keep an eye on you."  
  
"Yeah, well, you can keen an eye on me from over _there._ " Stiles points to a chair across the room, as far away from him as possible while still within a line of vision. But Derek gives no indication that he’s taken the suggestion on board or that he’s even heard it.  
  
"Um, ok, or don’t," Stiles mutters under his breath.  
  
He hears Derek let out a terse breath behind him and he can practically see the flared nostrils that he’s sure accompanies the sound. "Stiles."  
  
"Oh my god, what do you even _want_?"   
  
"Stiles." It sounds like Derek’s forcing patience on himself and that it’s taking every ounce of self-control that he has. "We need to work on your memory."  
  
He says it as though that isn’t _exactly_  what Stiles has been trying to do ever since he woke up without it. "Yeah? _How_? If you’re sitting on some grand master plan there, now would be a pretty good time to share."   
  
"The spell affected your mind, but not necessarily your body," Derek says, sounding begrudging, and Stiles is beginning to realise that communication just isn’t this guy’s thing.   
  
"Come on, just spit it out already, you caveman. If there’s something that can help, I need to know."  
  
"I’m talking about your motor skills — your muscle memory," Derek explains, his tone controlled but a vein pulsating in his neck. "Not things that you remember, but things your body inherently knows. Tapping into those could help reconnect your memory. It could get your body and mind in sync again."   
  
"What are you suggesting? Meditation? _Yoga_? All that yin and yan bullshit?" He doesn’t get a reply. Stiles knows he's just being difficult for the sake of it now, but he has to give Derek credit: it sounds like a pretty good idea. Maybe the jerk might actually prove useful after all. He sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. "Ok, like what?" he asks, trying to sound less frustrated.  
  
"Well is there anything that you’ve done without knowing how you actually remembered it? Like you were just on auto pilot? Could be something as simple as typing in a phone number, knowing which drawer your socks are in…"   
  
"Well, yeah, I guess. Some things come to mind." And if Stiles sounds at all uncomfortable when he says it, it’s got nothing to do with the fact that he knows _exactly_  what Derek’s talking about - but is unwilling to discuss it with him. Or, really, with anyone.   
  
The thought dawned on him suddenly, that this whole memory loss shebang meant rediscovery in every sense of the word. The most exciting thing about that was the rediscovery of his own body, like he was just learning about it for the first time. Like he was a kid again, having his first fiddle around, and learning how _awesome_  that really was.   
  
So it was no surprise that he was half hard before even making it into the shower. As soon as he had a hand around his dick, however, he realised how wrong he was. The way it fit into his hand, the weight of it in his grasp… it all felt familiar. He instantly knew what to do with it, the way to rub his thumb lightly over the head and twist his wrist just like that. The right places to squeeze and the right amount of pressure to apply. It wasn’t something he remembered, he just _knew_. It was all instinctual. And at the time he was disappointed (well, as disappointed as anyone could be while jerking off — which is to say only very slightly) but that was then.   
  
This is now. And he realises it’s probably a good sign.   
  
But like hell is he telling Derek about _that_.  
  
"Well?"   
  
"Uh, yeah, the shirts thing," Stiles deflects, awkwardly clearing his throat.   
  
"We should try to find things that your body might remember, to prompt your mind into remembering it as well," Derek explains and Stiles almost snorts at the comedic timing. If only Derek knew what he was thinking about just moments before. Then again, if he did, Stiles would probably be comatose by now.  
  
"Well, um, Scott says I play lacrosse."  
  
"Won’t work," Derek says dismissively, appearing to give the suggestion no thought whatsoever, and irking Stiles even more.  
  
"What? Why not? You use muscles to play sport so you get muscle memory, right?"  
  
"Yeah, maybe if you’re actually good at it."   
  
"I…" Stiles opens his mouth and closes it again. Then, "hey, screw you! What’s _your_ genius plan, then?"   
  
Derek ignores him in favour of tapping out a message on his phone that he doesn’t deign to show Stiles. It buzzes almost immediately with a reply.   
  
"Scott says you play a lot of video games," Derek says and Stiles wonders if he’s imagining the disdain in Derek’s tone or not. Ignoring the suggestion entirely, he adds, "We’ll take your jeep out."  
  
And that’s how they end up in the jeep with Stiles behind the wheel.  
  
His dad has forbidden him from driving, under the pretence of it being doctor’s orders, and honestly it’s probably not a bad idea to keep him away from the road until his memory is all sorted out. But Stiles is willing to take Derek’s insistence as a good enough excuse. He considers it 'taking one for the team' and that makes him feel better about disobeying his dad and following his own (and Derek’s) whims. He can’t really explain why, but he’s excited at the prospect of being behind the wheel again.  
  
"Don’t crash," Derek deadpans, ever the epitome of tact.   
  
"Just what I was planning on doing," Stiles returns with a roll of his eyes and releases the clutch, putting the jeep into gear and moving slowly out of the driveway.   
  
He doesn’t quite know how he’s doing it, but Derek’s right about the muscle memory thing. Stiles drives the jeep naturally, knowing immediately when he needs to change gear and that he has to over compensate for left hand turns. It’s nothing he’s consciously thinking about, something that his body just does. Intuition or something like that.  
  
He throws a grin Derek’s way. "Pretty sweet, huh? Seems to be working like you said it would." His gaze flickers back and forth between Derek and the windscreen as he waits for a response.  
  
"Eyes on the road, Stiles."  
  
Huffing a sigh, Stiles does as he’s told and continues driving. Without realising where he’s headed, Stiles finds himself outside a small, homely cafe and he pulls off the street, putting the car into park. "Hey, we should celebrate by you buying me coffee," he suggests with an experimental grin. "I like coffee." Then, as an after thought, he adds, "but I can’t remember my usual order."  
  
"Latte, two sugars," Derek supplies.  
  
"Hey, I’m not taking _your_  order, jackass. I said it’s your shout, remember?"   
  
Derek looks like he’s accidentally bitten into a lemon. A lemon dipped in tabasco sauce and coated in sawdust. "You said you don’t remember your coffee order," he says as though he’s unwilling to spell it out completely.   
  
"Um, yeah, I don’t?" Stiles says, because the thought of Derek _not_  being a selfish jerk for once doesn’t even register on his radar.   
  
"Latte, two sugars," Derek repeats. He’s still frowning. That frown is like a constant fixture on his face, Stiles realises. Or maybe that’s just how his face normally looks and he’s not actually frowning, in which case Stiles _really_  doesn’t want to see what Derek looks like with a proper frown.   
  
But really, it’s probably just that he’s constantly frowning. That’s the more plausible option.   
  
"Wait, that’s _my_  coffee order?" he asks, slack-jawed and a little dumbfounded, if he’s honest.  
  
"Like I said."  
  
"How do you even know that? Do we get coffee?" Stiles asks, biting the inside of his cheek to physically suppress the urge to ramble. "Like together? Do we go on coffee dates, is that it?"   
  
"No," Derek replies through gritted teeth. Then, a moment later, "Scott told me."  
  
That makes more sense to Stiles. Scott _is_  his best friend, after all, so he just shrugs and doesn’t dispute it. "Kay. Still your shout, though. I remember how to drive a car! That deserves some kind of reward, don’t you think?"   
  
Derek is out the door and slamming it behind him before Stiles realises that they’re no longer having a conversation. "You didn’t answer my— are you paying or not?" He still doesn’t get an answer.  
  
Yep. Jackass.   


\----------

  
Derek doesn’t check to see if Stiles is following him. The kid seems determined to get his coffee so Derek figures he’s probably hot on his heels. In fact, it’s a surprise he hasn’t already stepped on them.   
  
He fishes his wallet out of his back pocket as he approaches the counter. "Latte, two sugars," he tells the girl behind the counter, flashing her what he considers his _charming_  grin. Which, in reality, is the only grin he possesses. It has different names depending on its context, but it’s secretly the same one. But it’ll ensure he gets a discount on his coffee next time he’s here. Sometimes he’s just tactful like that. "And a long black." He glances towards the display cabinet then, eyeing the pastries and his stomach rumbles. "Stiles," he says, eyes still on the assortment of sweets as he flicks his wrist behind him to whack the kid in the stomach and get his attention. There’s a yelp followed by the hurried scuffing of rubber shoes as Stiles flails into his peripheral vision.   
  
"You getting my coffee?" he asks and Derek can _hear_  the stupid grin that’s undoubtedly on his even stupider face.  
  
Derek releases a short breath through his nose. "Hungry?" he asks with only the slightest inflection and tilts his head towards the display cabinet.   
  
"Oh, hey, yeah, um," Stiles stammers out beside him and it’s all Derek can do not to roll his eyes.   
  
"Too late," he says simply, turning back to the girl behind the counter. "Give me a cherry danish."  
  
"Me too!" Stiles pipes up from beside himand he _actually_ raises his hand as though he’s in school. Derek’s tempted to ask if that’s a question — because questions provide the perfect opportunity for ’no’s. "And… a bagel?"   
  
Derek ignores him (and the consequent jabbering about being a growing boy) and hands the girl a twenty, dropping the change into the tip jar and seting off to find a table. Stiles scrambles along behind him like a lost puppy.  
  
He finds a table as far from the other occupants as possible and pulls the chair out with a harrowing scrape of wood against tile. He sits down and settles into a medium intensity glare at the space across from him that is quickly filled with Stiles’ face.  
  
It’s not that Derek had a problem with Stiles when he was just Scott’s tag-along friend that got in the way more often than not but _occasionally_ provided useful input. He made up for the fact that Scott has the intellectual capacity of a doormat, even if his human arse was often a liability. But as his confidence grew, so did his innate ability to piss Derek off with nothing more than a facial expression.  
  
"Want to turn that frown upside down, buddy? Somewhere, Jesus kills a kitten for each time you pull that expression."   
  
Ok, so maybe Stiles has always been a pain in the arse. The damn witch made a mistake when she took away his memories — she should have taken his vocal chords instead. Derek has the feeling he’d tolerate the kid a whole lot more if he just learnt to shut his trap once in a while.   
  
In response, he bares his sharpened teeth and lets his eyes flash red for a moment, experiencing a smug sort of satisfaction when Stiles almost topples backwards off his chair.   
  
"Ok, yeah, or we could just keep playing musical expressions while we pray the wind doesn’t change," Stiles snarks — and, seriously, does this kid never _stop_? A flash of his alpha eyes is enough to deter most people, even if their affect is waning somewhat on Scott these days. But Stiles is _human_  and he’s lucky his throat is still intact.  
  
Derek’s contemplating just how high the likelihood of a murder charge would be if he gutted Stiles then and there when their coffees arrive and he’s saved from putting his theories into practice.   
  
He sips his drink silently and, for the first time that day, Stiles seems to follow his lead and shuts the hell up. Derek’s able to concentrate on the soothing burn of the liquid as it trickles down his throat and into his belly, heat spreading through his entire body and warming him from the inside out. It’s pleasant, almost.   
  
It’s also short lived.   
  
"So. Coffee’s good, huh?"   
  
Sometimes Derek wonders whether Stiles says things just for the sake of talking, to hear his own voice. It’s like he’s afraid of the silence; that if it lingers too long, something even more unpleasant will fill it. He thinks that might be it, but he doesn’t really understand it. Derek likes silence, the opportunity to think and be alone with his own thoughts without interruption. It’s a sort of boundary he has that Stiles doesn’t respect; in fact, he tramples right across it by spewing whatever trivial drivel passes through his mind at a given time. It’s infuriating.   
  
When Derek doesn’t reply, trying his hardest to ignore the incessant tapping of Stiles’ fingertips against the wooden surface, the kid only continues.  
  
"So have you got any other great ideas about that muscle memory stuff?" Stiles asks, before the tapping moves to his own temple. "You know, up in that noggin of yours. That noggin full of thinking. Stuff. And brain matter."   
  
Derek lets out a terse sigh, air escaping through his nose. "Maybe if you’re quiet, you’ll remember something about the coffee."  
  
But Stiles isn’t buying it. He had this look on his face, like he’s half considering it, but Derek knows better. He knows when he’s being mocked.   
  
"Nah," Stiles says, scrunching up his nose and shaking his head. "Doesn’t sound likely. I think I’ll just keep running my mouth instead. That seems to come pretty naturally to me, right? Must be that muscle memory stuff again. Your tongue’s a muscle, you know, so it makes sense. Maybe if I just keep at it I’ll accidentally say something important. Probably in between a heap of less important shit, but who knows, this isn’t an exact science or anything. I’m kinda winging it here."   
  
Derek thinks he should have just stayed home today.  


\----------

  
If Derek’s strategy is to ignore him into silence, then he clearly doesn’t know Stiles very well.   
  
The indignation is coming off him in _waves_  and it only strengthens Stiles’ resolve to coax some sort of conversation out of Derek, maybe even a smile. It seems like a lot to ask, especially since the best he can hope for is probably no more than a beastly growl right now, but even _that_  sounds like an improvement to the wall of stoic resistance he’s faced with.  
  
"You always this cheerful?" Stiles quips as he climbs into the jeep and starts up the engine. "I thought this whole broody persona was just in lieu of a good cup of wholesome coffee, but I guess you’re just naturally this friendly, huh?"  
  
Stiles’ eyes flick between Derek and the road as he pulls out from the curb and he takes a hungry bite of his bagel. Then, as though an after thought, he holds it out to Derek, wiggling it temptingly under his nose in a sort of silent invitation. Or at least _he_  thinks it’s tempting, but the werewolf doesn’t seem to be buying it.  
  
"Stiles."  
  
"Why are you such a sour wolf this morning?" Stiles replies impatiently. This time when Derek opens his mouth to complain, Stiles is ready and shoves the bagel unceremoniously inside.  
  
Derek gags and sounds as though he’s about to hack up a lung.   
  
"Oh come on," Stiles mock whines, unable to entirely hide the glee from his tone. "You’re acting as though it’s been baked with mistletoe. It’s just _rye_ , Derek."   
  
Derek’s hand shoots out and grabs Stiles’ wrist in another one of his death grips. Is this going to become a thing with them? Stiles whimpers and obliges by dropping the bagel. It falls onto Derek’s stomach but is quickly shaken off, rolling onto the ground.  
  
"Waste of a perfectly good bagel," Stiles bemoans the loss.   
  
Derek ignores the whining. "What do you know about mistletoe?" he demands.   
  
"In regards to what? Kissing or werewolves?" Stiles teases, wiggling his eyebrows. It’s much easier to get under Derek’s skin than he expected and he has to admit that he’s rather enjoying it.  
  
"Stiles," Derek says and it’s almost a sigh.  
  
"Ok, ok!" He throws his arms up for a moment in resistance before replacing them on the steering wheel. "Mistletoe. Romantic for us humans, but the thing of nightmares for you and your hairy-arse supernatural buddies," Stiles says with a shrug, because it’s not important.  
  
"Did Scott tell you that or did you remember it?"   
  
Stiles thinks for a moment, trying to figure out the answer himself. "I don’t think Scott mentioned it. It’s something I just feel like I know, I guess." He figures it doesn’t really matter though and antagonising Derek is far higher up on his list of priorities. "Hey, just in case, maybe we should go and get some! Or is _sight_  like an issue for you, too? Just seeing it doesn’t set you off, does it? I mean, I don’t wanna see you crying in corner like a puppy. I don’t think our relationship is ready for that, man."   
  
"I don’t cry."  
  
"Wow, werewolves don’t have tear ducts?" Stiles deadpans. Then, "Lucky, I guess. You wouldn’t want to get those ugly tear stains in your fur like dogs get. It might ruin that whole badass thing you’re trying really hard to maintain."  
  
"Excuse me?" Derek snarls.  
  
Stiles pointedly gives him a lingering once over before scoffing. "Oh please. Leather jacket? We’re not in some 80s sitcom, Derek. You’re _totally_ trying to win badass points. What is it? Some kind of intimidation tactic?"  
  
"If it is, then it’s clearly working."  
  
Stiles takes his eyes off the road again to glance over at Derek and raise an eyebrow, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the wheel. "Like you’d know?" he replies, trying for casual but not quite managing it. Because the truth is that Derek _does_  intimidate him.   
  
Derek does something unexpected then. He chuckles. Actually _chuckles_. And it’s not some sarcastic snort of a laugh, either; it almost sounds warm. _Almost_.   
  
"Oh you have no idea," Derek murmurs and there’s something about his tone that makes Stiles feel as though he’s on the outside of some inside joke. It makes him feel oddly self-conscious and he wonders when he became the guy who misses the punchline.   
  
"We’ll just stick you under some mistletoe," he shoots back, trying to even out the playing field again with his own taunts. "You’ll be about as intimidating as a kitten with soggy paws. But you’ll have to forgo the leather. Because, really? Leather _and_ fur? Massive fashion faux-pas, dude." His eyes have all but abandoned the road now, flittering across Derek as he waits for the indignant retort.   
  
That’s why he doesn’t see the bike.   
  
" _STILES_!" Derek shouts, launching in front of him to grab the wheel, jerking it sharply to the side and causing the jeep to swerve violently away from the cyclist.   
  
"Shit. _Shit,_ " is all the input Stiles manages, slamming his foot on the breaks.   
  
An amalgamation of his breaking and Derek’s steering (practically on top of Stiles) causes the jeep to lurch to a sudden stop.  
  
And Derek is fuming.  
  
"I should have known you weren’t ready for this yet," he snaps, his chest rising and falling heavily as he stares out of the windshield. Stiles feels oddly deflated and more than a little bit ashamed of himself.  
  
Before he has a chance to register what’s going on, Derek grabs a fistful of his shirt and hauls him across his bloody lap. _Derek’s_ lap. His _lap_.   
  
"Woah, steady on!"   
  
Derek ignores him in favour of manhandling Stiles into the passenger seat while he roughly relocates himself in front of the wheel. By the time they’re repositioned (after much indignant complaint from Stiles that went entirely ignored by Derek) he feels strangely flushed and warm in the cheeks.  
  
"You don’t even know how to drive this thing," Stiles sulks. "She’s temperamental. You don’t _know_  her like I do."   
  
"Well it’s a good thing I’m not incompetent, then, isn’t it? Which already puts me a step ahead of you," Derek replies through gritted teeth. "Next time I let you behind the wheel, maybe you can spend more time with your eyes on the _road_  instead of on _me_."   
  
Stiles can feel his cheeks heating up again. "Was not," he replies petulantly and receives only a derisive scoff from Derek.   
  
The rest of the drive back to Stiles’ place proves uneventful. Thank fucking god.  
  
Once the car is parked in the driveway, Stiles stands awkwardly in the open doorway, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "So you can, like, leave now or whatever," he says, leaning up against the doorframe and trying to play it cool and casual. But underneath his pale skin, his pulse is racing.   
  
Derek gives him a long, hard stare and Stiles feels like he’s stuck in some game of chicken — broody eyebrow style chicken.   
  
He loses.   
  
But, really, that’s not a surprise, right? He just doesn’t have the eyebrows for it.  
  
Derek barrels past him, shoving him out of the way as he pushes inside the house. Guess he’s still in a bad mood, then. "I’m waiting until Scott gets here. I don’t trust you on your own," he says and heads straight for the stairs, leaving Stiles gaping behind him. At the first landing, Derek turns to look down at him. "You can bring me a drink." And just like that, he disappears out of Stiles’ sight. The ungrateful werewolf.   
  
" _Arsehole._ "   
  
And he hopes that the pointy eared hobgoblin is listening.  


	3. Nidor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been hoping to get these chapters out a little faster, but they seem to spend a lot of time on the drawing board between my first draft and the finished piece. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think so far. Feedback is love!

When Scott arrives after school, Stiles doesn’t even _want_ to say goodbye to Derek. It’s petty, he’s aware, but after everything the jerk has done today, the last thing Stiles wants to do is actually acknowledge him in anything close to bloody courtesy. But he’s saved the necessity of (begrudgingly) taking the higher road when he turns around to find that the window is wide open and Derek’s gone. He quickly catches himself gaping and closes his mouth.  
  
"Dude," he says when he turns back to Scott and Scott’s got this stupid grin on his face like he knows exactly what Stiles is about to say. "What a dick!"   
  
Scott just laughs. "Well I told you so, didn’t I?"  
  
"Yeah, but I kind of thought you were exaggerating," Stiles admits. What he doesn’t admit, though, is that he hoped anyone he’d experienced animosity with before his accident would cut him some slack and at least _try_  to start on a fresh page with him. Then again, maybe the Derek he’s witnessed _is_  actually an improvement. But for all Stiles knows, he could be even _worse_  — intentionally making things more difficult than they already are. And that’s the frustrating thing: he just doesn’t know. He has absolutely no fucking idea and it’s _infuriating_.  
  
"So what have you got for me?" he finally asks Scott, cringing as he looks at the bulging backpack his friend has brought home from school. "Please tell me that’s not all homework."  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Urgh. Ok, lay it on me, little wolf man. Do your worst." Stiles takes what he assumes is a defensive stance, karate or something, but he’s fairly sure he’s never taken any kind of self-defense or martial arts training before. But he does the best with what he’s got — namely his sense of humour. "Come on, hit me, baby!" he adds, waiting for it. And Scott holds nothing back.  
  
"Eight pages of algebra," he says and drops a thick math textbook on Stiles’ desk. The thing looks pristine, as though it’s never even been opened before, and Stiles frankly wouldn’t be surprised if it hasn’t been. He hates math. He doesn’t actually _remember_  hating it, he just knows he does. "Got to memorise numbers twenty through forty on the periodic table for Harris. But, uhh, dude… do you even remember the first twenty?"  
  
Stiles grimaces. "Like, in order?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
He thinks for a moment, trying. "Carbon. I know that’s definitely at the start somewhere. Carbon and… Sodium. That’s two. Are they the first two?"  
  
"That’s a no, huh?" And the snort Scott makes is _not_  helping.  
  
"Well according to my brain, that’s useless information anyway. It could only hold onto a certain amount and cut the rest free. Tough shit, Harris, this is like _finite proof_  that chemistry is a waste of fucking time."  
  
"Well, one through forty then."  
  
"What an arsehole," Stiles mutters, continuing on his rant. "Giving memory homework to someone who’s _lost_ their memory. Bet he did it on purpose, too. Harris, yeah? He’s totally one of the bad ones, right?"   
  
"Yep."  
  
" _Figures._ "  
  
Scott fishes a novel out from his bag and tosses it to Stiles. "Got to read that for English. There’s an essay on it, but not for like a month or something. Do the other stuff first, it’s due this week."   
  
Not that it matters since Stiles isn’t going to be at school this week. Or next week, or for the foreseeable future. Until that bloody witch is caught and his memory restored.   
  
"And," Scott continues, pulling out a bunch of papers, "we’ve got a project on pricing and coupon promotions for coach."  
  
"Huh," Stiles snorts, dumbfounded. "The fuck does that have to do with lacrosse?"   
  
"Nothing, you idiot, it’s for economics. Coach teaches it."  
  
"What’s _economics_ got to do with lacrosse?"  
  
"Well you suck at both?"  
  
Stiles scoffs indignantly. "Hey! Just because I don’t remember them, doesn’t mean I automatically suck at them." But frankly, it’s probably true and he knows it.  
  
"You once wrote an entire economics midterm on the history of the male circumcision," Scott explains, barely containing his laughter. "Coach was livid."   
  
Now that’s something Stiles _definitely_  doesn’t remember. How could he even forget something like that? That witch was good — freaking good. "Well," he begins, trying to bullshit his way out of it. "I’m sure lots of economies around the world are affected by the practices and treatment of a dude’s junk."  
  
And because Stiles’ life sucks, that’s the exact moment his dad walks in.  
  
"Do I even want to know?" the sheriff asks, wearing the same expression as he did the time he walked in on Stiles jerking off.   
  
"No, probably not," Stiles admits, scratching his head self-consciously. "But c’mon, dad! Learn how to knock, yeah? I could have a _girl_  in here."   
  
Both Scott and the sheriff let out a snort of laughter.   
  
"Not while you’re boasting about your intimate knowledge of circumcision, you won’t," the sheriff points out and Stiles only rolls hie eyes.   
  
"You know, dad, many women _prefer_  a circum—"   
  
"Okay, that’s enough, son," his dad interjects and begins his retreat out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Apparently whatever he has to say isn’t worth sticking around and enduring Stiles’ antics.   
  
"Dude," Scott says. "Please tell me that’s not a line you  _actually_  use when you’re talking to girls."  
  
"Well you’d know better than me at this point. Do I have girls in here very often?" Memory loss or not, Stiles has a feeling he already knows the answer to that. A _sinking_  feeling.  
  
Scott gives no verbal response, only pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Bro hug?" he offers.  
  
"Fuck off," Stiles whines. "I bet I could get all the girls I wanted if I wasn’t busy hanging around with your hairy wolf butt."   
  
"Hey, I’m the one who actually _has_  a girlfriend."  
  
"Yeah, remind me how _that_  happened," Stiles says with a roll of his eyes. Then, when Scott looks like he might actually take Stiles up on the offer, he adds, "No really, don’t. I don’t need to hear another bloody word about Allison’s _fingernails_."   
  
It’s a couple of hours later that Scott gets a call from Allison, slipping out the window so he’s got some privacy. And Stiles is thankful. Whatever the lovebirds talk about on the phone, he doesn’t want to have to sit through it lest his stomach curdle. But he does wonder what they could possibly still have to talk about; surely nothing monumental has happened since school let out that afternoon. Coupley things, maybe. But it’s not like Stiles knows anything about _that_.   
  
He takes the opportunity to get started on his algebra. Well, _attempts_  to get started is probably a more accurate description: he doesn’t even make it half a page before he’s packing it in and picking up the novel instead.  
  
 _Catcher in the Rye_.  
  
The title is familiar, but it doesn’t spark any particular memories.   
  
Stiles has never been an avid reader. Not because he doesn’t enjoy it, but because he’s never had the attention span to sit still long enough to make significant headway on a book. But his energy is waning now and he curls up on his bed with his earphones blasting some instrumental piece he doesn’t know the name of. He flips open the book and starts reading. Almost instantly he’s hit with a sense of déjà vu, underlined with an intense feeling of nostalgia. It’s almost overwhelming and Stiles comes pretty close to putting the book back down again, but it’s curiosity that conquers and compels him to continue. He’s a few chapters in by the time Scott comes back and the feeling still hasn’t subsided.  
  
He pulls his ipod out, not even realising that it has stopped playing, and drags his eyes away from the book.   
  
"Have I ever read this before?" he asks, waving the thing in the air to get Scott’s attention.  
  
"Huh?" Scott still has that stupid just-talked-to-Allison expression on his face.  
  
"This," Stiles says and waggles the book again. "Catcher in the Rye. It seems familiar. Have I read it before?"  
  
"How should I know?" Scott asks with a shrug.  
  
"Uhh, I dunno, maybe because you’re my best friend and it’s your job as a bro to know what I’m doing and what I’ve done, especially when I’ve got no memory left myself. _You’re_  meant to be my memory, man!"   
  
To Scott’s credit, he at least has the decency to look sheepish and a little guilty at his lack of attention to detail.   
  
"I’m sorry, dude, but you know I’m not the most observant person in the world!"  
  
"What colour socks was Allison wearing today?" Stiles asks, deadpan.  
  
"Yellow." And there’s that goody grin again. "Why?"  
  
"Case in point," Stiles mutters, more to himself than to Scott. "Whatever happened to bros before hoes, huh?"  
  
"Hey! Allison isn’t a hoe."  
  
"Totally missing the point here, dude."  
  
They sleep top to tail that night, as they have every other night since Scott has been staying over, and Stiles is glad that his friend had a shower after lacrosse practice. He still remembers what gross, sweaty feet smell like and he definitely doesn’t want to sleep beside them.  
  
He wakes up when Scott does, because damn that wolf doesn’t know a thing about being quiet in the morning.   
  
"Go 'way," Stiles grumbles, his speech still slurred with sleep.   
  
"Exactly what I plan on doing, dude," Scott replies, sounding far too cheerful for stupid o’clock in the morning. "I’ve gotta go to school. You need to get up, too. Derek’s going to be here any minute now."  
  
"He can keep watch from outside while I sleep," Stiles says. "Tell him he can make friends with the schnauzer next door if he gets lonely." And he rolls over, ignoring all further protests from Scott, and goes back to sleep.  


\----------

  
Derek’s second day of babysitting Stiles holds little more promise than the first did. Scott practically falls out the window and Derek rolls his eyes, wondering how it’s even possible for a werewolf to be so fucking uncoordinated. It makes him wonder just how bad Scott was _before_  the bite heightened his senses and abilities.   
  
"He said to wait out here. He’s sleeping," Scot explains before heading off to school.   
  
Derek indulges Stiles for a good ninety seconds before he’s pulling himself through the window. Yesterday, he would have been more than happy to keep his distance — but if he can’t sleep, like hell is he going to let Stiles get away with it. The kid somehow manages to remain unconscious to the world while Derek climbs through the window, but maybe it’s just because he’s used to the fucking racket Scott makes. He looks around for a moment before grabbing a heavy math textbook and dropping it unceremoniously onto Stiles’ stomach.  
  
Stiles lets out a strangled noise that sounds somewhere between a squawk and a grunt, trying and failing to clamber to his feet. Instead, he ends up on the floor, tangled in his sheets, and his head enveloped in linen.   
  
"Dickhead!" he grumbles, his voice muffled by the blankets.  
  
"Lazy," Derek returns easily.  
  
"Shitface!"  
  
Derek smirks a little, eyeing the leg that’s protruding from underneath the blankets. " _Spiderman_."  
  
The flailing pile of blankets stills as Stiles freezes beneath them. A second passes before he retracts the leg he’s managed to free, concealing it once more from view.   
  
Derek almost chuckles. "Nice pyjamas," he teases instead, scoffing just a little as he gives the blankets an experimental nudge with his foot. They begin to flail once more and he actually  _does_  chuckle this time.   
  
"Piss off so I can get dressed," it tells him.  
  
"No."  
  
Stiles finally manages to get his head free, keeping the rest of his body hidden beneath the sheets. "What, you _want_  to watch me get changed or something?"   
  
"Maybe I need the ego boost."  
  
Derek’s enjoying this more than he should be, but it’s surprisingly easy to fall back into the familiar snarky banter with Stiles, as though nothing is amiss and his memory hasn’t been almost entirely wiped. Nothing has changed and despite how freaking annoying the little shit is, there’s something comforting about the fact that the witch couldn’t change his inherent nature. He's still the same Stiles, just with some of the details missing.   
  
"Ha. Ha. _Fuck you_. Just because not all of us are bulked up on werewolf steroids."  
  
"I look like this because I work at it. All you do is eat and sleep and _that’s_  why you look like a twelve year old girl."  
  
"Jesus, don’t hold back," Stiles mutters. "I’ve got no memory. At least let me keep the notion, however misguided, that I’m packing something under my shirt."  
  
"Delusions are no substitute for memory, Stiles," Derek schools him, tongue in cheek.  
  
The kid just rolls his eyes and begins tugging the uppermost blanket from the end of the bed. When he stands, he has it bundled around him and trailing behind on the ground. He stumbles his way to the door and, when he reaches it, hesitates before turning back around to face Derek again.  
  
"For the record, you look like shit today. Did you even sleep last night?"  
  
The comment catches him off guard, but Derek isn’t going to let himself show it. "Some of us have better things to do in bed than sleep," he replies, feigning cockiness because it’s _easy_ , and distracting from the truth that no he did _not_  get any damn sleep last night. It’s a good thing Stiles is no werewolf or he’d pick up on the hitch in Derek’s heartbeat immediately and the reason for the previous night's anxiety isn't a conversation he wants to have with Stiles. Or with anyone, for that matter.   
  
"Yeah, well, keep forgoing the sleep and you won’t be getting too many offers for those late night trysts between the sheets. You really do look like crap, man."  
  
Derek’s already tired of the exchange — and the longer it goes on, the higher the chance that Stiles will realise something is amiss. So he flashes his red eyes and pointed teeth. Getting the message (and something that looks delightfully like _a fright_ ) Stiles stumbles back out of the room, leaving Derek to his own devices while he gets ready. So he grabs the book from Stiles’ nightstand and flips it open, reading idly while he waits for Stiles to get out of the shower.  
  
It’s only a few minutes before Derek’s ears pick up something he really would prefer not to hear. The rapid breathing is the first thing to hit him and once he’s heard that, it’s like a flood-gate opens, and the rest follow quickly and easily. The sloshing of wet skin against wet skin and the soft whines that he can tell Stiles is trying to contain. He’s trying to be quiet, presumably because he’s aware of a werewolf’s heightened sense of hearing, but it appears that Stiles has forgotten just _how_  honed in that sense is. Maybe he thinks the sound of the shower is enough to drown out his quiet whimpers (it’s _not_ ) and that Derek’s too far away to hear them (he’s _not_ ).   
  
What’s more, Derek knows he’ll be able to _smell_  it on Stiles the moment he returns. No amount of soap or aftershave is able to mask the scent of arousal. Or, worse still, the smell of what Stiles is currently doing.  
  
Derek tries to distract himself by reading but it doesn’t really work. His only consolation is the fact that it doesn’t last very long. The thought draws a snort form him and he’s still smirking by the time Stiles returns, clothed in some stupid plaid and chinos.  
  
"I’m reading that for school," he says, oblivious to the fact that Derek has just witnessed something far too intimate for their strained-at-best relationship. He closes the book abruptly and tosses it back onto the nightstand.  
  
"Well you’ve already read it," Derek points out and something flashes across Stiles’ face that he can’t quite read.   
  
"How do you know?" he asks at length.  
  
"You used to carry it around with you, maybe six months ago? If was always in your bag."  
  
"I… Wait, you go through my stuff?"  
  
"Sometimes." Derek smirks.  
  
"Do I… Does the me who remembers things know that you do that?" Stiles asks guardedly and Derek is enjoying this far too much.  
  
"Doubt it," he says and shrugs.  
  
"Dude, that is _such_  an invasion of privacy, I can’t even! I could have all kinds of personal things in there."  
  
"Like what? Love letters to Scott?"  
  
Stiles almost trips over his own feet. "I am _totally_  not the love letter kind of guy. And anyway, I meant personal things as in... like… for example, what if I had a giant box of XXL condoms or something, ?" He sticks his chest out, trying to look indignant, but not doing a very good job of it.  
  
Derek just raises an eyebrow, both amused and sceptical. "XXL?" he repeats, dragging his eyes down Stiles’ body pointedly, taking his time to rake over his dumb chinos. Stiles looks like he’s already regretting the comment, folding into himself under Derek’s scrutiny. "Unlikely," Derek eventually says, taking some form of pity on the kid and finally averting his eyes. "It’s not like you’ve got any use for them, anyway."  
  
"Fuck you," Stiles replies moodily, even though he brought this all on himself.  
  
"You’re not my type," Derek replies without missing a beat. The whole exchange feels depressingly one-sided and Derek eases up, almost missing the Stiles who could match him hit for hit in verbal combat. "Anyway, like I said," he backtracks. "You’ve read it before. Anything seem familiar?"  
  
Stiles runs a hand through his hair, looking about as tired as Derek feels, and a lot worse than when he woke up.   
  
"Yeah, actually," he says. "I mentioned it to Scott but he didn’t know whether I’d read it before or not."  
  
Maybe that’s why Stiles looks like such crap. His best friend has been utterly unhelpful throughout this whole thing. "Not surprised," Derek says, feeling a strange sense of generosity towards Stiles and giving him an out. Just this once. "He has a habit of missing things that are right under his nose."  
  
"But you don’t, huh?" Stiles asks, sounding almost vulnerable, and Derek needs to remind himself that the kid is only seventeen. It’s a detail he usually forgets, but something that can earn him a degree of sympathy right now. Well, at least until Stiles says something fucking annoying again and it’s gone.   
  
"I have a habit of riffling through bags, remember?"   
  
"Right."  
  
Silence falls on them then, and Derek rides it out for a few minutes while Stiles fiddles around with his laptop. Quickly growing bored, he gets to his feet, determined to do something better than sitting around babysitting all day.   
  
"Want to get brunch?"   
  
Stiles glances up at him from his desk, looking guarded as though he senses some kind of trap. Which, fair enough, Derek will give him that.   
  
"Brunch," Derek says again, slowly this time, as though he’s talking to an invalid. "Because apparently I look like shit today and I could use some coffee for starters." 


End file.
